


August 22

by essequamvideri24



Category: The White Queen (TV), Winter King: Henry VII and the Dawn of Tudor England - Thomas Penn, the white princess
Genre: Bosworth 1485
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 12:36:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7845202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essequamvideri24/pseuds/essequamvideri24





	August 22

His hands and arms were sore, and his body physically exhausted. It had been a long day of hunting in his handsomely stocked parklands. Elizabeth and her myriad of hounds had taken down a number of fine beasts, but his efforts had been less satisfactory.

It was an auspicious day for him, he thought as he inked the date in his ledger, maybe on some level that was what had caused him unease today. Or perhaps it was his mare throwing a shoe so early in the hunt. Or maybe it was that his cloak had torn on an errant branch.

He stifled a yawn and looked about the room from his seat at his writing table, scattered with papers, parchments, missives, and illuminated books. The apartments were vastly dimmer beyond the glow of the tall taper which stood above the paper mayhem. The fire in the hearth cast soft yellow, orange and red on the furnishings, while sketching long shadows that crawled the walls and floors.

In a small cot at the foot of the four poster bed an adolescent serving boy slumbered lightly. Though he was there to serve, he had learned early on that his master was a self-sufficient man who would rouse the boy when assistance was truly needed.

Back to the numbers, he thought, bowing his graying head over the ledger. Elizabeth, were she here now, would have no doubt reprimanded him for the late hours he kept and the insufficiency of the light in the room. But luckily for him she had retired early to her own apartments, understandably fatigued from the hunt.

The number and letters swayed and jumbled together on the pages, swimming and blending in his vision. But Henry blinked hard and soldiered on, no stranger to the wee hours. He continued with his arithmetic, his note taking, his initial making, his dating.

August 22. August 22. August 22.

The faint roar grew louder now, filling his ears, filling his mind. The sky above, a serene milky white haze of clouds, did nothing to betray the carnage and confusion below.

Mud. Mud was everywhere. In his eyes, in his mouth, in his nose, smeared and spattered down his suit of borrowed armor. A nearby spray dashed brown across the banner, his banner. The red dragon of Cadwaladr. 

The sharp sound of steel meeting steel drew his eye to a skirmish just beyond the line of pikemen who surrounded him and his bannermen. Henry looked down to find a sword in his own hand, useless as it was.

Jasper and Oxford had bid him in no uncertain terms to stay here and to stay away from the battle. “What is the point of all this if the head we have to crown has been lopped from your shoulders, eh?” Jasper had asked rhetorically, sarcastically, clapping his nephew on the back before he had lumbered away, “God keep ye.” Each muttered one to another.

Well what was he to do, now that the battle had been brought to him? He watched in horror as the scene played out not for the firm time in his life. 

A man, small and stocky, but somehow lithe in his blood coated but handsome armor, cut through the pikemen. His sword, a natural and deadly extension of his arm, immediately marked him as vastly more capable than the others. He was no mere soldier, that much was apparent, as he ducked, and twisted, and parried, and hacked. He was a warrior, a seasoned and experienced fighter, and an accepted leader of men, if the waves of men who followed and mimicked him were any indication.

The man’s face, as yet hidden in the chaos that swirled around him like a miasma, would be unfamiliar to Henry. But he knew the man in his heart.

There was a sudden and piercing cry, and Henry saw his banner falter then flutter towards the ground. The legs had been cut out from under his bannerman.

Henry’s own throat strained and longer to call out, to scream, mute though he was. He yearned to lash out with his sword, but his feet and body were immobile. Frozen to the spot he was helpless. He knew what was coming next, and there was no way to avoid it, no way he could shut his eyes to the fearsome tableau. The din of battle rang in his ears, there was a steely taste of blood in his mouth, and the mud… the damned mud was everywhere. And his men were losing, dying. Stanley would not come. And soon he would be dead too, dead at the hands of this unstoppable warrior who now stood before him, eyes locked to his.

The man removed his visor and helmet, casting them aside into the mayhem. Dark, lank hair matted with the ruins of the day clung to the angles and plains of his face as he advanced, sword at the ready.

“You defile me.” He snarled loudly. “You defile my memory, Tudor.” His advance was rapid now.

Affixed to the spot, Henry dreaded his unchangeable fate.

“Curse you!” The warrior spat. “God curse you and your damned family.” He maneuvered to strike Henry. “I curse you, Henry Tudor!” He yelled in a cry that split Henry’s soul.

“No! No! Oh God, no!”

He woke to the sound of his own screams. The candle on his writing table hand long since guttered out, but in the dim light of the room he could see the boy was on his feet.

“Your grace?” He called cautiously in the semi-dark as he crept forward. “Is there aught I can do?”

Remembering himself, Henry let drop the object clenched in his hand. A silver letter opener. “No, no boy, it was merely a dream.” He drew and hand over his face, rubbing his aching eyes, “An unpleasant dream.”

“You look like you have seen a ghost, your grace.” The boy observed.

Perhaps I have, Henry thought, perhaps I am haunted.


End file.
